Worry has an insidious habit of scratching gently at a small corner of your consciousness, like a contact lens that won’t quite settle. Eventually you have to pluck it off and replace it with something fit for purpose. The rule of thumb is that if you can feel it when you blink it probably shouldn’t be there. The daily mechanics have to continue. You’re staying part of the machine and you’re avoiding the imagined impulse to pop a can of Special Brew and sit on a busy pavement with a small dog and a blanket. The machine is there, whether you’re in it or not, and the machine doesn’t care very much one way or another. So you may as well douse yourself in fully synthetic 5w 30 and mesh in. Which doesn’t necessarily mean subscribing to a perceived moral majority or buying the box set of X Factor seasons one to eight. But until life rips you a new one better stay off the blanket and boss your particular part of the engine. Strap your hands across it and engage. You never know: one day you may have one of your own. In the meantime I’m hoping that the spare lens I have in a drawer at work will make my left eyeball feel less like it’s been fashioned, Blue Peter style, out of the cardboard tubes from toilet rolls. I’m thinking that when the time comes it would be cool to bury Thatcher in a fake Karl Marx beard.